Chapter 3
THREE
JESSICA
I miss Mom’s cooking, waking up to the sweet smell of pancakes, her singing drifting through the thin walls as she fluttered around the small kitchen.
That was before she got ill. Now the mornings are heavy with silence, her warmth replaced by a gloom that clings to the walls like mold on damp wallpaper.
Dad doesn’t help matters. He stumbled in drunk before dawn and collapsed on the couch. He lies there now, face down, one arm dangling to the floor. A sorry sight.
Chris ignores the man and his rumbling snores as he passes the couch on his way to the kitchen.
Rain battered the roof all night, and the metal bucket on the floor is now a quarter full. He empties it in the sink before placing it back in its spot, where it has lived for the last year.
“What’s for breakfast?” He pulls out a chair and flops down, shirtless and yawning.
I’m the suffering middle child in our family. Chris is two years older, a fact he always likes to rub in my face. Meanwhile, Summer is the baby of the family, having recently turned eighteen.
Two months ago, we had a party for her right here in our small backyard. The weather was perfect for a barbecue that day, and lots of our friends showed up with food.
It wasn’t the same without Mom here, but we did our best to make it memorable for Summer. Life moves on whether we want it to or not, and it’s crucial we stay united as a family, no matter what. At least, that’s what Mom would say if she were here.
Thinking about Mom and what has become of our family brings a lump to my throat, and I try to swallow past it.
It’s hard to feel like we’re failing her. She was the glue that held us together.
Chris scratches his bare chest, stifling another yawn, his eyes lighting up when I put a plate of pancakes in front of him.
Mom is no longer here, but the least we can do is honor her memory.
Why am I thinking like this? She isn’t gone yet. There’s still hope. There’s always hope.
Summer enters the kitchen and ruffles Chris’s blond bed hair. He isn’t fazed in the slightest as he stuffs his mouth full of food.
She sits down, smoothing her floral skirt, then pours a glass of orange juice. Dad’s snoring rumbles like a chainsaw in the living room, but we are used to it. Sad as it is, this is our new normal. We have no choice but to accept it.
“I’m racing tonight,” Chris speaks around a mouthful. “You should see the prize pot, it’s—”
“What’s the buy-in?” I interrupt, easing back in my seat.
These things always cost money we don’t have. Chris is a good racer, but his cheap car can’t compete with the likes of Ravencourt and the other rich kids and their souped-up sports cars.
That’s right. They race, too. Every weekend, people from all parts of town and nearby areas gather at Dark Lanes to race for money and pride. It’s a quick way to earn some extra cash to pay the bills if you’re good at it, and an even faster way to lose money we don’t have.
It’s happened too many times recently, and Chris and I often clash over this. The mechanic job at Bleakmoor Auto Repair doesn’t pay enough to cover the bills and Mom’s treatment. I understand his pride is wounded because he can’t provide for us, but racing isn’t the answer.
And Dad? What does Dad do? Drink the money away, that’s what. The only reason we haven’t kicked him out yet is that I don’t want to lose another parent. But things are tense at home.
A few weeks back, Chris and Dad had a big blowout that turned nasty, and Summer had walked away with a black eye after she stepped between them. My father, drunk and disoriented, swung at Chris, but missed.
That was the final straw for my brother, who stormed out and didn’t return for three days. Yet despite everything, I can’t throw our dad out on the street. I just can’t. Mom wouldn’t want that. Dad is broken and hurting, but how do you parent your own parent? At what point do you give up on them?
“What’s the buy-in?” I ask again, firmer this time.
Chris’s chair scrapes on the floorboards as he stands up and discards his leftover pancakes in the trash can.
The air is tense around him. Summer fidgets, but I’m done walking on eggshells since he returned from wherever the hell he shacked up for three days.
He can’t just up and leave every time shit gets hard.
How is that fair to us? I’m the one who picks up the pieces around here.
In case he hasn’t noticed, I’m barely keeping myself together, but I’m trying for Summer.
“What’s the buy-in?” My firm voice causes his shoulders to rise to his ears.
He spins around. “You don’t have to fucking worry about that. I’m gonna win, alright?”
I haven’t told him yet about crashing Kane Ravencourt’s party and stealing from his father’s rare collection.
Most of the items fell out of my bag, but I got away with one ornament—a fancy dagger with an intricately carved handle—which is still in my bedroom, tucked into my bedside drawer.
I haven’t flipped it yet. Something stops me, and I don’t know what exactly.
I just… I hate how low I’ve stooped to keep us afloat.
It’s all because of stuff like this… my brother’s illegal racing, the drug dealing, my father’s drinking.
Why do I always have to sacrifice my morals to keep us afloat?
It won’t be long before I have to beg for a job at the local strip club, and we all know what goes down in their private rooms.
A violent shudder crawls down my spine at the thought of selling my body. I shouldn’t let my mind go there. Not yet, at least… not until I’ve exhausted all other options, including stealing from the founding families.
Chris drops his plate into the sink and storms out before I can argue further, leaving me to hold back tears. I cover my face with my hands, my shoulders caving beneath the weight of the last few weeks. We need to stop fighting.
It sucks that we’re constantly bickering. There was a time when we were good friends, a time when I would confide in him. Those days are gone, and I worry our family might never heal again.
Summer gently rubs my shoulder, and my bottom lip trembles, but before tears fall, I force down the sadness for yet another day.